this is the road to ruin
by BerryliciousCheerio
Summary: I choose him; he chooses me. in which surviving is never the easier path. part one of the survival continuum. MAJOR ALLEGIANT SPOILERS AND ALTERATIONS


**major spoilers/alterations ahead. if you haven't read allegiant, and want to, please please please stop reading now honestly dont ruin this for you go through the pain and then read this it'll make more sense**

**disclaimed**

* * *

Surviving is terrible.

My entire body aches, from my toes to my head. I'm not allowed to sit up on my own—when I want to move, I have to call for a nurse. But—

David is dead. The compound is relearning humanity. My home—Chicago is no longer an experiment, the fate of the population in the palm of a bigot.

And Caleb is dead.

I am the last Prior and all I can do is survive.

...

Tobias comes running into the hospital room, his face as white as my surroundings. He looks like he's about to cry, but he doesn't as he falls to his knees beside my bed, joints cracking on the floor.

I want to move to meet him, to press myself into his chest and breathe him in. But I can't.

The nurses and doctors were very clear. I am not safe yet; the bullet that managed to hit me nicked my spine. I am lucky I'm not dead, let alone paralyzed, but the stitches and staples holding me together could fall apart just as easily as my brother's skull did if I move the wrong way.

Unwanted images spring up in my mind—of Caleb's blood on the ground, on my clothes, of gray matter blasted into the wall. The gun I used to kill David was slick with my brother's life blood.

Tobias's fingers close around mine, drawing me back.

I can't pretend to be brave right now.

I start to cry, which quickly gives way to sobs, and Tobias wraps my hand in both of his for a moment. Then he stands, legs shaking and face pale, and he shifts me over in the narrow bed, climbing in after me and cradling me gently against him.

My chest aches and it might be from the hole in it or maybe it is grief, trying to drown me, to drag me under for the last time. I wince, my wince becoming a grimace, my sobs becoming wails.

I sound like a dying animal and I don't even have the ability to be ashamed anymore and—my brother is dead.

I want to crack my chest open and take out my heart. I want to open up my skull and remove my brain. I want to stop thinking, I want to stop seeing my brother fall to the ground, head obliterated. I want to stop drowning. I want to stop breathing because it hurts so much.

Tobias anchors me just enough, his skin warm against mine.

"Hurts—," I choke out, my tongue lead in my mouth.

...

They let me visit Uriah once before they pull the plug.

Zeke and their mother are in the hallway, talking in hushed, somber tones. I catch a snippet of their conversation as Tobias wheels me past. They're talking about the funeral. I feel like throwing up, even when I haven't eaten solid food in almost two days.

Uriah looks like he's sleeping. I almost expect him to open his eyes and grin, make an almost unneeded comment about my pallor as of late. He doesn't. It might have hurt more if he did.

I don't have words, so I have Tobias help me to my feet and, moving painstakingly slow, I kiss Uriah's cheek and grab his hand for a moment.

I start to cry again. Tobias places his hand on my back, broad and warm, just under my exit wound. He helps me sit again, fingers curling around my collarbone, over my tattoo. I lean into him for a moment, because everything is too much, my body too heavy.

I'm in my room that night with Tobias, watching what Matthew called a classic move, when Christina comes to tell us that Uriah is dead. I don't know when the body count will stop rising, but I hope to God it's soon.

...

Tobias stays by my side for three weeks, though I spend most of my time in the hospital sleeping or crying or mumbling incoherently after the nurses administer pain medication.

When I'm finally discharged, he doesn't ask me if I want to stay on the compound. It's not a question that needs to be asked when Caleb's blood is still staining the halls.

He helps me into a truck, sitting in the backseat with me so I can curl up on my side and lay my head in his lap.

Johanna Reyes is driving, Christina sitting next to her, eyes dark and heavy. I don't want to have to talk, so I close my eyes. I don't sleep. I can't. I haven't slept without the aid of medication in three weeks.

I tangle my fingers with his and try not to cry.

...

I live with Tobias, a detail silently agreed upon. I'm not strong enough to live on my own, I still need his help getting out of bed, and I don't think he trusts me to wake up in the mornings on my own. His apartment in on a low floor, but there's roof access and I spend most of my time up there.

The standard line people give to mourners and survivors is "It gets easier." It doesn't. I feel like I'm drowning every day and not even Tobias can pull me back. It's like Caleb dying broke something inside of me or broke something that was already breaking or ripped open old wounds or some other cliché. It doesn't even matter anymore, because I'm still choking on air.

Tobias is gone during the days, working with Johanna to set up the city's infrastructure once again. He's always nervous when he leaves, and I think he thinks that I can't be trusted with my life, that I'll go on a suicidal rampage like I did after my parents died.

Christina stops by and I suspect that Tobias has asked her to, because she always lingers, watching me carefully, looking for any sign that I'm more unstable than normal. And I know that my friends, that Tobias hates it when I go up to the roof, too close to a ledge to be comfortable, but the wind is nice, whipping my hair around, biting my nose to remind me that I'm alive.

...

I spend three months drowning, jerking awake at the slightest disturbance, my family's corpses fresh on my mind. Tobias spends most of his time watching me in concern, and I spend most of my time staring at white walls.

He must not think I'm strong anymore.

...

I hear him crying one night. I don't know how to help him, so I roll over and go back to sleep.

...

When the fourth month begins, and I'm only taking one pain killer when needed, Christina shows up at the apartment. She must have a key now, because I don't hear her until she barges into the bedroom, where I'm trying to convince myself that I'm sleeping.

"Get up," she says, smacking my afoot as she passes on her way to the curtains, thrusting them open and letting in an ungodly amount of light. "Get up!" she repeats, yanking on my leg before moving onto shaking me outright.

"I have a bullet wound," I say sourly, pulling my legs away from her.

She snorts. "One that healed. I talked to Four. The doctors say that you're fine." I bite my lip. Christina continues, "This is just sad, Tris. You've been lying in bed for months—."

My voice brackets up to a screech, the words tumbling out of their own accord, "_My brother is dead_."

"My brother is dead," I repeat, lowering my voice. "And all I can do is try and breathe."

She crawls into the bed next to me, grabbing my hand out from under the blanket, and she says, "Your family died and that sucks." Even without factions to consider, she is blunt to a fault.

"It sucks," I echo, tongue heavy and throat tight.

"It sucks. But breathing won't get any easier in here, alone, where your guilt can eat you alive. You're alive, Tris. You are allowed to be alive. You deserve to be alive. So get out of bed. You're going to work."

"Work?"

"With me. We're helping outsiders move into the city, finding apartments for them—stuff like that. It's kind of boring right now, just paperwork and stuff, but it's something to do and you're going to do it. Now get dressed."

With her final direction directed, Christina clambered out of the bed and walked out, calling over her shoulder, "We're leaving in twenty minutes!"

...

Christina was right—it _is _boring. But it's something to do, something to focus on.

All we're doing is reviewing applications, making notes about disabilities and number of children, things that could affect where they are assigned temporarily, before tossing the papers into a pile labeled "Awaiting Assignment".

It's tedious, and after a few hours, my hand begins to cramp, but it's better than doing nothing for another day.

We're in the Abnegation headquarters, refitted to be a base of operations, and almost everyone here was once Abnegation. Susan comes down from another unit, bringing a few other girls I knew from school with her, and they eat lunch with us, speaking quietly and allowing me to stay silent, for the most part.

It's not a miracle, not even close, but its good, and Christina was right. It's easier to breathe when there's air around.

...

Tobias brings food with him when he returns from work, something that I'm immensely grateful for. I'm awake and breathing, but I am nowhere near ready to undertake the massive feat of cooking something edible.

He stumbles to a halt when he sees me sitting at the table, situated halfway between the living room and the kitchen because the apartment is too small to accommodate a proper dining room. The room is silent for the longest time, as he puts the food down on a counter in the kitchen.

When he finally returns, he sits in the chair across from me. The table is small, and he doesn't have to reach far to grab my hand.

"I went to work today," I blurt, focusing on our fingers, twisted up in each other.

"Christina?"

"Christina," I confirm.

And then he's laughing, and so am I, like it's the funniest thing in the entire history of humor. We're still laughing when he stands and draws me to him, when he holds me, and this time I hold him back, matching his strength with my own, shaky as it may be at present.

We talk a lot during dinner, about a lot of things—he carries most of the conversation, letting me listen to as much as I want too, not pushing me to contribute more than I'm willing. When dinner's over, we clean up, side by side, still talking, bodies brushing as we move around the tiny kitchen.

Tobias has been sleeping on the couch at my request, even though I only ever really wanted him near me. I think I was punishing myself, even though I used the excuse that I didn't want to disturb him with my nightmares. Tonight, though, I don't hand him a blanket from the bed, but lay down silently and wait. Eventually, he joins me, sliding under the covers hesitantly, waiting to see if I change my mind.

I keep my eyes shut until I feel him next to me, our breaths mingling as he faces me. His warmth is a welcome change from the normal chill, even under blankets, and his skin is warm against mine as I scoot closer, tucking myself under his chin, my toes brushing his ankles.

Tobias wraps his arms around me, anchoring me, and I feel bold enough to say what I've been feeling for months.

"My family is dead," I murmur into his shoulder. "And I'm not. And I'm—I don't know what to do with that. I never pictured a world where I was the last Prior. Even that day—if it had to be anyone, I thought it would be Caleb. But never me."

Tobias kisses my forehead, then between my eyebrows, each cheek, my nose, and then, finally, my lips. I didn't require a response to my statement—I only needed to say the words, get it out—but his touch is comforting, and, it seems, the perfect sleep aid. I drift off minutes later, matching my breathing with his so our chests are rising and falling in time, falling apart and coming together as one.

...

And it doesn't happen all at once, it never does, but I start breathing easier, sleeping better, speaking freer. I'm no longer floundering, just barely keeping my head above the water, but swimming with the shoreline in sight.

I continue to work at the center with Christina, moving from reviewing applications to working to refurbish some of the older, moldier apartment buildings. Its draining work, and my muscles ache when I come home, but the first of the families from the Fringe moves in and one of the mothers began to cry, grinning as she hugged her children to her, and my aching muscles were suddenly no longer a problem.

Tobias and I keep talking about everything and nothing, and we learn, after many disastrous attempts, that we are equally terrible at cooking, though we're learning. He can make French toast. I can make spaghetti. It works.

And one day, I wake up, and my heart isn't in my throat, and I haven't dreamt about my family bleeding out, and I know it's finally time.

...

We're scattering his ashes today.

It's only Susan, Tobias, and me. Caleb didn't have many friends, and I don't know if he made any while he was in Erudite.

I clutch the urn to my chest, utterly questioning my choices. Once his ashes are gone, I have nothing left of my brother, no physical memory of him, nothing to prove he'd ever existed. My home, along with all the more damaged domiciles in the old Abnegation sector, has been torn down, small colorful houses going up in their stead. I hold the urn so tightly that my fingertips and knuckles are white with effort.

I'm starting to realize that I didn't know my brother at all, and choosing a spot to scatter his ashes was a mountain of a task in of itself. I finally chose the top of the Hancock building. I don't know if he'd ever been there before, but you can see the entire city from the top of it, and I think he'd like that—being able to see everything, able to study it.

I picked a day that was supposed to have wind, to take him further than he would have ever travelled in life, and today does not disappoint.

Susan is crying, softly, and I think she might have loved my brother, unselfishly and wholly, and maybe given the chance he could have loved her like that as well. But maybe not.

Tobias places a hand on my waist, his thumb circling my hip bone, where it juts out just slightly. I've never thought myself bony, just slim, but in the last few months I've lost weight I'm just now beginning to gain back.

They never tell you that about grief, either—you waste away like a corpse. You match them in death, only you're breathing.

And then I open the urn.

When Caleb's gone, floating in the wind, away from me and away from the city, we go back down. As the elevator descends, Tobias visibly relaxes. He was there for me, he stood atop the tallest building in our city so I wouldn't have to face this alone, and the thick feeling in my throat returns, along with the tight, burning sensation in my chest.

I hug Susan tightly before we part ways, surprising her. But she surprises me more when she responds with equal desperation.

Her eyes are red when she pulls away, and so is her nose, and she laughs a little, reaching up to swipe her cheeks, her nose, to distract herself. "I'll see you at work, Beatrice," she says softly, lifting her hand in farewell before walking away, back towards her own apartment, closer to Abnegation's old sector.

She has a gray coat on, and she disappears easily into the crowd.

Some things will never change, I suppose.

...

Months later, Tobias and I lay side by side, lined up from hip to chest, skin to skin. I roll onto my side, splaying my fingers across his chest. I prop myself up on my elbow, to look at him fully.

"I'm alive," I say finally, happily. I'm happy, I think, finally. I'm allowing myself to be happy again, despite the guilt that has found its home in my head and my heart. My brother knew what he was doing, and I had done all that I could to save his life. And in the end, he is dead and I am alive, and doing my best to not live will do nothing to change things.

"I'm alive," I repeat, smiling, grinning.

Tobias reaches up to brush my cheek, to edge some hair away from my face, and he grins back at me. "You," he rumbles, leaning up to kiss me, "are alive. And I am so grateful."

I choose him; he chooses me.

* * *

**to be continued**


End file.
